


night and light and wolf and lamb

by honeyedgold



Category: Elisabeth - Levay/Kunze, Mozart! - Levay/Kunze
Genre: Gen, but nothing explicit because SOMEONE'S IN DENIAL, i can't stop writing Death creeping on other characters apparently, just take Mozart's angry railing against Colloredo as shipping material okay, mention of Collozart, send help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 13:55:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13637637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyedgold/pseuds/honeyedgold
Summary: what happens at Mozart's deathbed, in another world.or: "i have been half in love with easeful Death."





	night and light and wolf and lamb

**Author's Note:**

> So. I have gotten into multiple theatrical fandoms at once and at the speed of light. [glares pointedly at Mark Seibert - WHO IS OUT THERE ENJOYING A LOVELY TROPICAL HOLIDAY DIGITAL DETOX AT THIS TIME OF WRITING WHILE I HAVE TO TREK THROUGH THE SNOW AND COLD AND BRRRRRAHHHH - because it is totally his fault] Expect incoming fics for Tanz der Vampire and Romeo und Julia involving his characters.

It’s a cold day in the beginning of December. 

You are alone in your room - or perhaps there are others tending to you? You cannot be sure. You have been quite ill for a time.  Sometimes you see faceless shadows by your side, amorphous and silent. Besides those, Amadè is sitting at the foot of your couch, writing. You don’t even flinch when he stabs you with that quill of his in search of ink. It’s a terribly familiar dance between the two of you by now, after thirty-five years. 

You are drained. You tell him that he would need to try the heart next time if he actually wanted something that will stick.

Amadè ignores you. He continues to scribble away, his face contorted with fury at the stubborn refusal of the ink to remain on paper. As you look on, the black marks disappear, and the child tries fruitlessly to replace the missing text. The tip of the quill gouges into the fiber as if he intends to tear the pages apart.

Anger sweeps you up and holds you fast in her grip. Why is that  _ demon  _ still tormenting you? Haven’t you given enough? What more can he possibly take? Your life, your family, your childhood, your love - all sacrificed at that great altar of Music. You  _ are  _ music. You have become music, in its purest and vilest. But at what cost? 

You seize Amadè up by the collar, nearly lifting him off the ground with unimaginable strength. He doesn’t fight back. Smirks at you with the triumph of a man about to strike the final blow.  Somewhere, Josepha sings.  _ Hört, Rachegötter.  _

You shout at him. “I want -”

The child plunges his quill into your heart, and you scream, a hoarse, twisted sound. It barely sounded human to your own ears. But you don’t care; there is pain now. So much of it. You would do anything to make it stop, as it burns like ice and spreads like wildfire through your depleted veins, filling them up in place of all the blood that had been taken. 

_ Dies irae, dies illa.  _ Music roars all around you, unseen voices weeping, wailing, asking for - what? Forgiveness? Absolution? There is none left for you.  _ Solvet sæclum in favilla.  _ You slump back as you are engulfed in cold flames. He picks up the music box -  _ mine!,  _ cries your soul -, places it tantalizingly out of your reach, and deserts you as quickly as a candle extinguished.

You lie sprawled out on the couch, motionless, helpless as you watch blood pour from your wound - not from the heart, but from the much-abused arm. It forms pools on the wooden floor, sinking into the cracks. The stain is wine-dark. The rhythm of splattering droplets is maddening in its constant relentless pounding. Your vision fades at the edges. You are trapped again. Yet, your mind no longer whirls with the restless energy that torments you and proves to be your undoing. That particular demon has fled with the music.

There is only stillness now.

Dimly, you sense the presence of another in the room, but the figure in front of you keeps flickering as soon as you recognize it. She is Constanze, young and beautiful as the day you met, a paper rose in her hair, her questioning gaze piercing and wild. She is Nannerl, all in black, looking at you with unfathomable pity if not disgust. He is Papa, sad and disapproving, turning away from you. She is Mama, smiling because she cannot do otherwise, approaching to hold and comfort you.

He is - 

_ No. _

Surely, this can’t be the Prince. That puffed-up, insufferable provincial lordling has never -  _ would never  _ \- look at you this way. Seeing you for what you are. What you deserve. (You will never admit that you want him to. What use does a man with the applause of all mankind have for one look from one who despises him? Salzburg does not exist for you. That is a bridge you have set ablaze with glee.) His High-and-Mightiness All-Powerful Graf Colloredo von blah-de-blah can shove it.  Yet there he stands at attention, mute and impossibly still in all black. The pompous fool can never do that. He struts around his palace with the airs of an Emperor who owns a world that submits to his every whim. (You find the  _ actual  _ Emperor a damned great deal more suited to your liking and certainly more good-humored.) And even when he’s wearing black, he’d have that great big ostentatious gold cross hanging on his chest as if to shout,  _ “Behold! I am a man of God!” _

Just as the thought passes your mind, a slow, languid smile crosses the expression of your companion. He moves towards you soundlessly - without the rustling of clothes, the creaking of shoe leather, or even the squeal of floorboards. Absurdly, you notice that his hair is the same light shade as yours, swept back in a halo of pale gold. You try to focus through the pain at your wrist, and instead of blazing green fire, all you see are two endless pools of black on white. Perhaps there are stars in them as well, but somewhere very far away. Their lights drip with cold silver, remote and strange.

You understand.

You want to get up, but your body refuses to obey. He bends down for you instead. His cold breath ghosts on your cheeks like the tender caresses of a lover. You and him are equals, two princes alike in dignity.  _At last._

His lips are frigid as they touch yours, his fingers carding gently through your hair. You taste Death on your tongue, dark and honey-sweet, and you fade away into the last kiss, turning into a million little lights scattering on the winds of melodies that would never be written but were heard all the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Why did I write this fic in the first place? Guess who was a totally predictable fangirl and cackled like a madwoman when she heard Mozart singing “I can taste Death on my tongue,” in “Mozarts Tod”. Yeah. This one. It’s even better when it’s Thomas Hohler. I do have to say, though: it’s Oedo who lent me the description of Mozart’s death scream. I found it so disturbing. 
> 
> One day I will get my sticky mittens on a Mark x Thomas bootleg. As much as I love autistic!Oedo!Mozart [AND I SWEAR I WILL WRITE THAT FIC ONE DAY, UPON MY ASPIE NONEXISTENT SOUL], Thomas sings and acts like he pours his entire self into it. I did manage to place hints of autistic behavior/sensory issues into this, though. 
> 
> There’s also a funny coincidence: I prompted Sylvie (pencap) on Tumblr a year and a half ago for a poem, and forgot about it in due course. Just as I was writing this fic, a notification popped up that she mentioned me on a post, and there it was, [Impression of a Night](http://pencap.tumblr.com/post/170013302875/impression-of-a-night)! It wasn’t even inspired by Mozart/Colloredo because I haven’t even gotten into that fandom at the time I sent her that message! AND YET IT FITS LIKE A GLOVE! I think that either I’m utterly predictable or she’s psychic. I ended up using said poem in the course of writing this thing. This is a pointed recommendation for everyone to check out her blog, because she writes such wonderful poetry that speaks to my soul and shatters my cold blackened heart with every word. 
> 
> Whosoever spots all of/the majority of the sneaky shoutouts will get either a virtual cookie or a fic request. ;)
> 
> Extra joke for my fellow Collozart shippers:   
> Q: Where can you find Mozart balls?  
> A1: In Mozart’s pants.   
> A2: Ask Colloredo. 
> 
> HEY. In my (feeble) defense, he liked dirty humor too. I can never eat a Mozartkugel now that I’ve heard the first answer and come up with the second one. I crack up every time I pass a display of Mozartkugel and Sisi sweets. Living in Vienna, I see them A LOT.


End file.
